


Dragging This Lake

by coricomile



Category: Twilight Series - All Media Types
Genre: M/M, Scars
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-27
Updated: 2012-09-27
Packaged: 2017-11-15 03:32:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 674
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/522680
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coricomile/pseuds/coricomile
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Really, he's the child here, throwing a temper tantrum because he can't get what he wants. Can't have Bella, can't have a normal life, can't have something to prove he was here, tangled up in the enemy like a cliche, out past mutual ground. Not your property, is what it's saying. No playing keeps for him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dragging This Lake

The thing is, they don't scar. There's an endless sea of marble hard white in front of him, bloodless and cold, unmarked for nearly a century. It's unnatural. It's strange. Jacob slides a nail across Edward's stomach and waits for the skin to go pink. 

It doesn't.

Edward's watching him, eyes dark as they always are, something between curiosity and amusement scattered across his face. It pisses Jacob off on a lower level, heat down in the pit of his stomach that doesn't seem to go away, even as he does it again, nails skittering over the lines of Edward's arms and shoulders, something that could be claws if he wanted them to be.

And, really, he's the child here, throwing a temper tantrum because he can't get what he wants. Can't have Bella, can't have a normal life, can't have something to prove he was here, tangled up in the enemy like a cliche, out past mutual ground. Not your property, is what it's saying. No playing keeps for him.

Very slowly, Edward reaches a hand up and flips Jacob's wrist. There, under the darkness of his skin, are crisscrossing hatch marks. Reminders of claws and nightmares, reminders of waking up screaming with the memories of people who weren't him. Edward runs a cold thumb across one scar, rubbing the bump of it almost tenderly. Jacob snarls. He doesn't want it like that.

Edward presses him down onto the grass and crawls over him, silent, considering. Jacob watches him warily; he may be sleeping with the enemy, but that doesn't mean he trusts him. The grass is cool and prickly against his bare back, the smell of autumn heavy around him. 

One of Edward's fingers traces over a line across Jacob's chest, fluttery soft all the way down to his navel. That one's old; a fishing accident from when he was still in diapers. It grew as he did, silver white all the way down. His mouth comes down over it, goosebumps rising up over Jacob's arms. His heart stutters under the pressure, cold seeping in and freezing his insides.

He could stop it, if he wanted to. He's just as strong as Edward, and as long as he doesn't think about it, the element of surprise is on his side. He could fight it and run back home, tail between his legs. He could stop taking Bella's calls, stop showing up for this, stop everything and try to start fresh.

He won't. He never will.

So, he closes his eyes and feels Edward's cool, slick tongue move over wounds that are too old to be remembered, feels as Edward catalogs old battles and spars and accidents, methodical and clinical. He touches the sharp line of Edward's shoulder, nails digging in as Edward's mouth presses to his hip through his shorts. 

It seems like days have passed when the sharp bite of teeth graze over Jacob's thigh. Jacob goes tense, half way to phase, but Edward pulls away. There's a bit of blood on the corner of his mouth, but he wipes it away, mouth curled in a grimace. Dog blood, Jacob thinks nastily. He hopes the taste sticks for days.

"You should go home," Edward says. He glows a little in the dimming sunlight, pale against the autumn. 

"I'm not a kid," Jacob says, an automatic response to being ordered around. 

"Puppy," Edward replies. "Your pack's going to show up soon. They're circling." 

"Leave then." Jacob reaches for his shirt and isn't surprised when Edward disappears entirely.

It isn't until he's getting redressed that he notices. The scars, his battle wounds, his reminders, are gone. He's clean from shoulders to wrist to waist, nothing but smooth skin left behind. His pack arrives as he's covering up, something like guilt eating at him.

Later, when he's lying in bed, too tired to sleep, he feels a sharp flicker of pain. When he reaches down to touch, he feels a raised line. A scar. 

He doesn't get to play for keeps, but Edward does.


End file.
